


Reservations

by dizzzylu



Series: Tumblr Fic [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Prompt Fic, Schmoop, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He promised himself he wouldn’t think about the last few months tonight, that he would treat this as a starting over point, a chance for them to refocus on each other and themselves, not the extra shifts Stiles has been taking, or the round-the-clock attention Derek’s had to give the McManus house.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reservations

**Author's Note:**

> Back in December, I put out a call for prompts, because I thought, “pffft! I could totally get some Christmas fluff done!” Unfortunately, my mental health said otherwise, and I avoided most everything right up until New Year’s Eve.
> 
> But, [captainbuddha](http://captainbuddha.tumblr.com/) left me a prompt back then, and I really wanted to write for that prompt. Only, I really super duper needed to get my TWRB done first. And I finished that yesterday. YEAH BABIES.
> 
> So, without further ado, the prompt: _any chance of a sterek holiday proposal fic? I just love the idea of Derek trying to plan something and having a hard time pulling it off._
> 
> Valentine’s Day is totally a holiday, right? Um, but I seem to have remembered your prompt backwards, sooo have some Stiles screwing up the proposal!
> 
> Sorry *wince*

Derek hears Stiles over the rush of the shower, stumbling into the bedroom with his usual careless clatter. He's running behind a little, if they plan to make their reservation, but Derek's almost done; it's okay.

"I'm home," Stiles calls out. Derek can picture him skimming out of his uniform, all the neatly startched lines in a ruined heap on the bed, shirt and pants, boxer briefs, sock. The utility belt is where it belongs: in the safe in their study. Stiles can be careless with his possessions, sometimes, but never that.

He pushes his way into the bathroom while Derek finishes drying himself off. Derek gets the flash of a smile and an obligatory peck on the cheek before Stiles rushes back into the bedroom, offering apologies as he goes.

"Somebody's been vandalizing the old train depot," he says. "And the O'Banion boys just wouldn't give it up, smart ass little shits."

Derek studies his face in the mirror, trying to decide if he should leave the stubble or go clean-shaven. It'll barely last long enough for them to get through dinner and Stiles tends to enjoy his obvious badge of honor. He used to, at least. It's been awhile since Derek pinked up his cheeks and chin, the soft insides of Stiles' thighs. "Should an officer of the law be talking like that about the citizens they're supposed to serve?"

Stiles snort is loud, coming from right over Derek's shoulder. "Those little miscreants deserve it." He dumps his brush and cologne on the vanity and disappears into the bedroom again, angling for the closet. "Which shirt are you wearing?"

"The dark blue one, the one Laura gave me."

"I suppose you want me in the red, then? With the gray waistcoat?"

"Whatever you want," Derek says, mind already picturing blood red silk against Stiles' pale skin, the fitted waistcoat drawing attention to Stiles' narrow hips. If he had a choice, Stiles would wear waistcoats all the time, but it's...they haven't done this in months; gone out as more than just a means to get sustenance. It almost feels weird, their usual, carefully choreographed dance of getting ready at the same time a half-beat off.

Derek keeps an eye out for Stiles until Stiles trips into the shower, then dumps his own towel on the rack and heads into the bedroom, the cooler air refreshing on his skin. It's warm for Feburary, clear and dry. Derek can smell the chance for wildfire in the air but it hasn't happened yet, not in Beacon Hills. Still, he's alert.

He drops to the bed with a sigh, elbows braced on his knees. He promised himself he wouldn't think about the last few months tonight, that he would treat this as a starting over point, a chance for them to refocus on each other and themselves, not the extra shifts Stiles has been taking, or the round-the-clock attention Derek's had to give the McManus house. Though it's hard, on this night filled to the brim with prepackaged romance and forced togetherness, it also feels like a good excuse, too. Derek and Stiles never tend to give Valentine's day much attention, not when they're proving to each other over and over again how much they love one another, but it's been a long five months, with the distance between them unfathomable.

The thing of it is, Derek's wanted to say something for awhile. When Stiles first started taking two or three extra shifts a week, coming home only to make a beeline for the bed and sleep until his next shift, Derek made an offhand remark to John, not meaning anything by it. John tried to ease Derek's worries, said that the department had a massive backlog of paperwork that needed dealing with and that it fell to Stiles' shoulders, first, as the rookie. His face, though, fell a little, the worry lines around his eyes and his mouth more pronounced. His hand felt heavy on Derek's shoulder, his fingers too tight.

That's when Derek dove into the McManus house head-first, trying to prove to Stiles that he could deal with the absence like a grown-up. It helped that Mrs McManus was itching to get into the house before spring and that Derek only trusted himself to get the detail work exactly right. 

But with Derek not paying attention, the chasm kind of grew, getting to the point where Stiles was biting his tongue more often than not, carefully studying Derek on Stiles' rare nights off. If Derek were less of a coward, if he were better with words, he might've turned the TV off and tried to say something, anything, to get Stiles talking to him again. Instead, he held back, grateful for the mere fact that Stiles was still there at all, still slept beside him at night, still kissed him slow and stupid in the mornings.

If it weren't for those kisses, Derek might be more worried than he is. But there's something there, still, and he'll hang onto it with his claws if he has to.

At the sound of the shower shutting off, Derek sighs, pushes himself up from the bed, and reaches for the pile of his underclothes. He puts the socks on last, only to be annoyed when his toes poke through a hole at the tip. It's a thing other people would ignore, since his feet are going to be shoved into a pair of shiny, uncomfortable shoes anyway, but Derek's feet are a little over-sensitive. Now that he's thinking about it, he remembers the last time he wore these socks and how annoying it'd been, trying to keep his foot still while standing up for Isaac at his wedding. He'd told Stiles, after, to put socks on the list for their next errand run. That was a year ago.

A peek inside his drawer only turns up white athletic socks, which even Derek knows are unacceptable for the clothes he's about to put on. He sighs and hopes Stiles is better prepared.

"I'm going to borrow a pair of socks," Derek calls out. He already has the drawer open and is digging around in the mess when Stiles gives his blessing.

Then, just as Derek's fingers close around something velvety and hard, Stiles squawks, "Wait, don't!" and tumbles into the bedroom, towel secured around his waist with one clenched fist. "That was supposed to be a surprise," comes out in a rush and Stiles pitches forward, hand stretched out to take back the box. Derek darts away, slow enough for Stiles' fingertips to graze his arm.

"For tonight?" Derek asks, using two fingers to open the box, slow.

Stiles pushes a hand through his wet hair and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again. "Not really, no. It was. Well, I might've bought it as a Christmas present? And then chickened out because I wasn't sure if we were one of those couples."

"One of what couples?"

Stiles takes a halting step forward and runs a fingertip along the smooth, curving silver. "The kind that get married." 

"Oh," Derek says, quiet, eyes fixed on the blue box in his palm. He isn't sure what to think right now, it's been all he could do to not panic over the thought of losing Stiles. And now he's faced with the thought that Stiles has had this ring tucked in his drawer for months, almost as long as--

"Is this the reason for the extra shifts?" Derek asks suddenly, a bright bloom of hope growing in his chest.

Stiles huffs a little laugh and pushes the box closed. His other hand has long since forgotten it was supposed to be holding up a towel; Derek kind of wants to point out the absurdity of having this conversation with Stiles' nudity, but needs must. "Turns out engagement rings are really fucking expensive, yeah? And us Stilinskis have yet to corner the market on money trees, so..." Stiles glances around the room, at the windows, and mutters, "Why is it so cold in here, christ," and then looks down at himself and blushes. "Right, well. This is awesome." He rummages around in his bureau while Derek backs himself toward the bed, not so much lowering himself as collapsing in relief, his mind working to put the evening into a brand new perspective.

"Did your dad know?" he asks.

"Well, yeah," Stiles answers, like it's obvious. "Everybody at the station kind of knew. That's how I was able to get them to give me extra shifts."

Derek nods his head; of course they did. Derek tries not to feel like a fool, with everybody in on Stiles' plan at the same time Derek's worried about the growing distance between them.

"I know what you're thinking," Stiles says, close now, slotting between Derek's knees. He cups his hand under Derek's chin and lifts it, his free hand combing through Derek's damp hair. "But you're not an idiot. I made them swear, under pain of death, not to say anything. And I carry a gun now, so." He flashes Derek a wary grin. "Extra threatening." Stiles sinks to his knees, butting his forehead against Derek's along the way. "Talk to me, please," he says, his hands finding Derek's to thread their fingers together.

"I don't know what to say," Derek says honestly. The whole day, all he could think about how this might be their last chance to get it right, to get them both on the same page and start fresh. To learn he's had it all backwards this whole time, that there's nothing for Derek to worry about is freeing, and yet frightening in its own way. "I had no idea you felt this way. That you wanted to get married."

"Honestly? I had no idea, either. This was more of an impulse buy than anything, which isn't to say I'm doubting spending my life with you. It just means I realized after the fact that it was something we should discuss together, before plopping down a shitload of money on a chintzy piece of metal."

"The ring is beautiful," Derek rushes to say, and it is. Simple stainless steel with two shiny bands running parallel to each edge of the ring. In between them, in the same polished finish, is a tiny triskele. The ring isn't at all flashy, which makes it perfect, and Derek has the sudden urge to feel its weight on his finger.

"Of course it is," Stiles says, giving Derek's hands a squeeze. "Like I would pick something ugly. Rude." The worried furrow's gone from between his eyebrows at last, and Derek leans forward to press a kiss there.

"Go get it," Derek says, his voice soft and raspy from the warm, happy feeling in his chest, and nudges his nose into Stiles' cheek. "I want to put it on."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, his smile widening. His body vibrates under the weight of holding himself back, but he's up in a flash, before Derek can say it again, and darts over to the bureau and back again, his knees hitting the floor with a muffled thud. He can't get the box open fast enough and they both laugh at his fumbling, shaky fingers. 

Just as Stiles is about to slip the ring on, Derek remembers himself and inches his hand back, one eyebrow arched in expectation. 

"What?" Stiles fingers twitching in the air where Derek's hand used to be, and his eyes are wide with something like worry. "Did you change your mind already?!"

"I'm pretty sure there's a formal procedure one should follow," Derek says, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans. "You are unbelievable." He shuffles closer and grips Derek's hand again, rolls his shoulders out and tips his head from side to side. "Frederick Alexander Hale, alpha of my heart, fierce protector of all things small and fuzzy, owner of the world's greatest ass--"

Derek jerks his hand away again and says, "If you're not going to be serious."

"I am _deadly_ serious, wolfboy," Stiles promises, grasping Derek's hand. His fingers are warm and firm, his palm not even a little bit clammy. "You knew what you were getting into with me, you don't get take-backs now."

Derek gives himself over to the moment, letting his arm go slack in Stiles' grip. "Okay, okay. Just hurry up. We have reservations at seven."

"Oh my god," Stiles says, his eyes rolling so hard he throws his head back. "Let me do the thing!"

"Then do the thing!" Derek shouts back. He doesn't even bother to hide his smile at this point.

"Okay!" Stiles holds the ring poised in front of Derek's left ring finger and says, only a little too loud, "Derek Hale, will you marry me?"

"Yes," Derek answers, as quiet as Stiles was loud. And because he can't wait, he pushes his finger forward to get the ring on, enough that it catches on the first knuckle. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Derek's anticipating that, too, pulling Stiles in by his wrists, tugging him down as they both fall back in a heap of tangled limbs and giddy laughter.

Derek kisses him like it's the first time, slow and careful, with the stress of the day morphing into love and joy and sweet relief. There's a tiny part of Derek that still feels like an idiot for not putting the puzzle together correctly, but the rest of him is too full of that bright fizzy feeling to care much. Stiles has always been the planner, anyway, it only makes sense it would be the same here, too.

Stiles pulls back after long, breathless minutes, his face reflecting everything Derek feels and more. One corner of his mouth quirks up as he presses soft, lingering kisses all over Derek's face and jaw. "I thought we had a reservation," he says, quiet and sly. His legs shift with the words, enough for one to slip between Derek's thighs. Derek rocks his knee up to acknowledge the hint.

"I'm suddenly not very hungry," he breathes into Stiles' hair. His hand slides up Stiles' nape to cup the back of his head, a silent request for Stiles to stay exactly where he is: his warm wet mouth pressed against Derek's pulse.

"Boyd will kill us if we don't show up," Stiles says when he comes up for air again. He's edging his way down, his mouth hovering over a nipple. Derek forces the distance closed, back arching into Stiles' touch.

"I'll cover his losses," Derek pants, his hand fisted in Stiles' hair now, anchoring him through the want throbbing in his gut.

Stiles' fingertips skirt the waistband of Derek's boxer briefs and he darts a look at Derek's face. "You come up with the best plans."

Derek gasps at the flicker of tongue against his dick. "I learned from the best,"

"Yeah," Stiles smirks. "Yeah you did."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [dizzzylu](http://dizzzylu.tumblr.com) at Tumblr.


End file.
